“Got it, Mrs. Gilcrease. I will get you the letter.” Steve hung up the phone, dashed out the letter, scanned it, and sent it over within minutes. He was now officially scheduled to meet Scottie Pinkerton on January 6, 2016.
CHAPTER 4
Steve walked down the long dark corridor with a man in orange coveralls. They walked side by side, neither one looking at the other. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached a point where a teenager in a fast-food uniform and with a prominent whitehead on his left cheek was waiting for them. The kid asked, “May I take your order?” Behind him was a heat lamp with burgers wrapped under it, and behind that was a 1950s-looking electric chair.
Steve’s alarm jarred him out of the dream. It was 4:45 a.m.
When Steve awoke, drenched with sweat, he quickly gathered himself. Today was the day he would meet Scottie. Steve donned athletic shorts and a T-shirt that said, “Elmer’s BBQ…It be bad.” Continuing his morning ritual, he grabbed some coffee and chewed on a protein bar before heading out the door.
An hour later, Steve sat on the end of the bench between sets with 225 pounds on the bar, the sounds and odor of a busy gym filled the air.
“How’s it going?”
Steve turned to see Owen Fasso walking over. Fasso was a newly minted judge and the son of a very prominent one. An affable guy with dark hair and a slight paunch, Fasso had played both sides of the criminal justice system, first as a baby lawyer in the district attorney’s office, then going to the private sector and representing primarily white-collar criminals, though he was never afraid to take on a case with some blood, if the facts were right. He was also a scratch golfer, so eighteen holes always presented opportunities for Steve to pick Fasso’s brain.
“All good here,” Steve said. “Just getting mentally prepared for my first trip to death row.”
“I heard you got appointed to represent the guy that killed his wife in Claremore. Is that why you’re going?”
“Yeah. Headed to the state pen in McAlester after my workout.”
“Good ole ‘Big Mac.’ They keep the worst of the worst in that place,” Fasso said with a shake of his head. “Over the years, I’ve visited a few clients there myself, though I prefer the federal jails—much better food and more polite prisoners. You ever been before?”
“No. I’ve been to a few county jails, but never a full-blown prison, let alone Big Mac.”
“You’ll be fine. Are you prepared to meet this guy? Your client, I mean?”
Steve sighed. “Not completely. I wasn’t able to get the case file from his state court attorney until yesterday. By the time I got back from Norman, I barely had time to skim through the sixteen boxes.”
“Just explain it to the guy. I’ve learned over the years that honesty is the best policy when it comes to anyone sitting in prison. They sniff out lies pretty well.” Fasso grinned. “By the way, I have a tee time at the golf club this weekend, and we could use a fourth.”
“Thanks, but not this weekend. I think this case is going to take over my life for a while.”
Steve drove down Highway 75 with a knot in his stomach that grew as he approached the large, white, castle-like structure. He turned off onto a service road and reached a gate surrounded by concertina wire and cement barriers. Heavily armed, muscular men looked out at him from the gatehouse. Overhead, in towers, Steve could see figures standing ready with rifles in hand. Their silhouettes moving like shadow puppets against the clear blue sky.
One of the guards walked up to Steve’s car. “How can I help you?” “My name is Steve Hanson. I’m here for an attorney/client visit.”
The guard picked up a clipboard and looked at the sheet on it. After a few seconds, he gave Steve a nod and spoke while pointing. “You go down to that area over there, that’s visitor parking. Then head over to that entrance and enter through those doors.” The guard turned back, and the barrier raised.
As Steve pulled away from the security booth, he surveyed the landscape before him. Soon, that recurring, uneasy feeling floated around in his belly and bubbled up to his mind.
If I don’t win this case, my client will die inside this place.
Before him loomed Big Mac. It had been constructed over a century ago, and it looked the part. It was a giant square with a guard tower in each corner. The walls were painted white, but it had likely been decades since anyone had added a fresh coat.
On the exterior of one wall was a giant mural depicting the rodeo that the prison once famously held every year. Back then, most of the inmates were just cowboys who had done wrong, so the prison started holding a rodeo in 1940 with the inmates as contestants. The prison rodeo raised money for charity and gave the incarcerated men something to keep them busy. It reminded him of how, in the 80s, Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor used a prison rodeo as a backdrop in their famous comedy, Stir Crazy.
There were families playing in the park across the street. All of the dads were wearing gray prison uniforms. Steve wondered what type of chance in life those children had—the kids who only saw their dad in that jumpsuit labeled “INMATE” for their entire childhood.
Steve parked his car in the visitors’ parking lot near the southwest corner guard tower. He looked up at the twenty-foot-tall chain link fence with more concertina wire snaked around the top. His thoughts wondered about life inside as he traversed the sidewalk to the front door. He saw the sign directing visitors and followed it through the doors the sentry guard had pointed out.
After walking up five gradually sloped concrete steps, Steve faced two large glass doors, each emblazoned with the state seal of Oklahoma. He stopped for a second on the fourth step up, wondering how many people had gone through the doors before him and how many of those never got out. His body slightly shook involuntarily.
When he entered the building, three even larger corrections officers than those at the gate greeted him. The largest of the three spit some Copenhagen into a white Styrofoam cup with a paper towel stuffed inside, then he handed Steve an entry log while another held his hand out and said, “Cell phone.” Steve handed him the cell phone and followed the third guard’s hand gesture to pass through a set of metal detectors.
The first guard said with a smile, “Don’t worry Mr. Lawyer-Man.” He paused to raise the cup to his lips and spit. “We won’t look at your private photos or emails while you’re in there.”
The third guard, smallest of the three at maybe 6’2” and 220 pounds, patted Steve down while the second guard thoroughly searched his briefcase. The guards looked at each other, and the largest pointed down the hall to an office. “That way.”
Steve knocked on the door with a sign showing the name “Deputy Warden Martha Gilcrease.”
“Come in.” He recognized the southern twang and opened the door to see Gilcrease. The deputy warden sat behind her desk, looking at a file, her eyes never leaving the page. Her silver hair was pulled into a severe bun. Steve knew Gilcrease had been deputy warden for about forty years, and she looked like she had been doing it since the day the prison opened.
“Deputy Warden Gilcrease, I’m Steve Hanson, attorney for Scottie Pinkerton,” Steve said, voice slightly cracking as he handed his paperwork over.
Gilcrease lifted the glasses hanging around her neck and narrowed her eyes through the thick lenses while she scanned Steve’s driver’s license and Oklahoma Bar Association card. She pulled out a file. “Yep, you got your letter in. Good first step to getting in the H-Unit. Sounds much homier than death row.” She paused, a frown creasing her forehead. “Your letter doesn’t ask for a restraint-free, barrier-free visit,” Gilcrease said curtly. “You do understand that means you won’t be allowed in the same room with your client, and he will have to wear handcuffs during the entire visit?”
“What?” Steve said. “I unquestionably need to be in the same room with him, preferably without handcuffs. This is my first time meeting him. For me to do my job correctly, I need to show him that I trust him so he will hopefully trust me. I am sure you can understand that.”
“Well, prison rules require you to clearly state that you want your visit to be barrier-free and restraint-free in order for me to approve this.” Gilcrease tapped the offender visitation file on her desk. “We have to prepare for those circumstances ahead of time. Do you want me to cancel your visit today, and you can send us a new letter for a new date with the proper wording on it?”
“I definitely don’t want to do that either. I just drove over an hour and a half from Tulsa. Like I said, this is my first time here, and I honestly didn’t know.” Then, Steve said sheepishly, “It’s the
first mistake I have ever made in my whole life.” Gilcrease smiled at his facetious statement.
“I’m truly sorry. It was one hundred percent my mistake, but is there not something else we can do so I can see him today and be in the same room with him?” Steve asked in the nicest way he knew how, even giving a flirtatious smile in the hopes that it might help to some degree.
“Well, I suppose I can allow you to have a barrier-free visit in the attorney/client visitation room, rather than a visit separated by the glass partition in the family visitation center. But without the proper letter, there is no way I can allow a barrier-free visit to occur unless the convict is at least handcuffed. I would lose my job if I okayed a completely restraint-free visit without prior approval from the warden.”
